Doorstep
by AnabelleG
Summary: Booth shows up on Brennan's doorstep after an unexpected visit back home. Rated T for a little bit of 'language'.


**So, you know how when something big happens your mind kind of contracts and expands around the event and you end up with this screwy perception of what went on? Well, maybe that just me.....but anyway, that's where this story comes from. The style's a little different for me and I would welcome any feedback on how it comes across. But in any event, hope that you find it interesting! - Ana**

Scratching at the stubble at the stubble on his face, he stared at the door knowing that he was about to make a mistake. Once he knocked on that door and saw her face, he was going to tell her. That would make it real and he wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But the urge to knock on that damn door was not going away. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and when that wasn't enough to stop him, he stepped away until his back hit the wall behind him. The slide was slow and didn't stop until his ass hit the floor. He was done. Through.

Eyes fixed on the brass numbers on the door, he reached inside his jacket withdrawing the new-old flask, fingers sliding over the dents and dings on the metal surface. It was the only thing he had taken with him. He ignored the irony, stifling the laugh that he really didn't feel, and took a long pull from the flask, welcoming the rotgut sting of the whiskey. Denial and booze, he thought. Two things the Booth men did really well.

Not good enough though. Piss drunk or not, pictures kept flashing in his head, little slices of the hell he experienced over the last three days.

The phone call in the middle of the night.

Miles of interstate rushing past with sleep still crusted in his eyes. Clothes that felt too tight against his skin. He hadn't had time to choose. He should have taken a plane. But that was too fast, too soon.

Bitter coffee in a cardboard cup. A parking lot and a low-slung concrete building that he didn't want to enter.

Putty green tiles. A woman with a solemn face asking him to sign here, initial there. Someone laughing from behind the door. No that was wrong. Shrieking. Begging. And now it was his turn.

More green. Coffee rolling greasy in his stomach. There was sheet, but it wasn't set right. He could see a hand. Nicotine yellow fingertips. Knuckles, swollen and bent. It was a old man's hand, but he knew it. Against his skull, against his ribs. Around his throat. He knew it and tried to tell them they didn't need to move the sheet. He knew. They moved the sheet.

More papers. Another signature. Two words jumping off the page. Intoxication. Impact. There was something wrong with the printer. The n looked like an r. Not enough ink, maybe. Wouldn't happen at his lab. His lab. That was funny. His lab.

No flag. No service. No twenty-one gun salute. No sir. A tin of ashes on the seat next to him. Should dump them on the side of the road. No. He wasn't done with the old bastard. Not yet. Sir, no sir.

Now a red door with brass numbers was opening in front of him. There she was. Finally and so pretty. Beautiful. Another gulp of whiskey. Down to the dregs, better be careful. Tears in his eyes, but that was just the booze. Cheap crap.

She sat on the floor next to him and she smelled like lemons. There must be a new case. She used lemons after, to get rid of the smell. It must have been bad. He should have been there.

Talk, he wanted to say. Ask. But for once she was quiet, and suddenly he was angry. Why now? Couldn't she see that he couldn't start this without her? Then it was gone, the frustration slipping through his fingers. Not her fault. How fucked up was that? How fucked up was _he_? He stared at the flask in his hand. The words came from nowhere.

"My old man, he wasn't always--I remember...this one time, he...."

Then the words went away because he did remember. A fair, maybe a carnival. Just the two of them. Cotton candy, corn dogs. Laughter. His dad's laugh. And a stuffed animal. A blue frog. He remembered that damn blue frog and that his dad wasn't always the one to fear. He knew how to be good, how to be kind. He chose to be a monster.

To force his son to choose between loving and hating his own father.

The flask flew in slow motion. He saw it meet the wall, watched as it landed on the floor, the last clear drops sliding from its open top onto the carpet. Nothing more than a cheap, empty piece of metal with a brand new dent.

"My dad died."

There. He said the words and he was fine. Fine.

He heard someone crying.

He smelled lemons.


End file.
